by BJ Bourg
I scowled. I didn’t think Jack was capable of murder, but I’d known of drunks who would do anything for their next drink, and not all of it was as “respectable” as murder. If he didn’t find the money behind Granny’s, then where’d he get it? And why would he lie about it? Could it be he killed Mitch for his money?
“Have you seen anything suspicious over the past few days?” I asked. “Strange vehicles? People acting weird? Anything out of the norm?”
“No. I spend most of my time out back in the kitchen. I can’t see anything from back there.”
“Any customers who weren’t regulars?”
“You mean other than the tourists who come in here every day?” She ran a finger along her wrinkled brow. After a while, she shook her head. “I can’t think of nothing out of the norm. I sure am sorry.”
I nodded and thanked her, then walked out onto the sidewalk. “You lied to me, partner,” I said to the figure stretched out on the bench. I had to shake him several times to stir him from his nap.
Jack dragged himself to a seated position and wiped his crusty eyes. “Where am I?”
“You’re fixing to go to jail if you don’t start talking.”
While waiting for him to say something, the radio in my back pocket scratched to life. I pulled it out and told Amy to go ahead with her radio traffic. She told me to call her cell phone.
When I got her on the line, she said she might have stumbled upon something. “I just spoke with the teller here at Cig’s Gas Station,” she said. “It seems a wino came in this morning and bought eight hundred dollars worth of lottery tickets.”
CHAPTER 5
I whistled out loud. That was a lot of money for lottery tickets. “Would this wino have a name?” I stared at Jack as I waited for her answer, and soon my suspicions were confirmed.
“Yeah, it was Jack Billiot.” Amy explained how the teller said Jack had sat at a corner table—one of only a couple tables in the store—and began scratching off the tickets. “She said he was wet when he came in and he sat in the store for about two hours scratching off those tickets. He’d win a few dollars and immediately buy more tickets, and then go back to scratching. He was making such a mess that she was finally forced to kick him out.”
“What about all the tickets?”
“He went out into the parking lot to finish scratching them off. When he had scratched the last of them, he left the pile of tickets on the ground and rode off on an old bicycle. She had to go clean up the mess he left behind.”
“What time did he leave?” I asked.
“About thirty minutes ago.”
I pulled my phone away from my ear and checked the time. It was already almost noon. I asked if there was anything else, and she said there wasn’t. I ended the call and folded my arms across my chest. “Jack, you have the right to remain silent…”
Jack’s eyes widened as I read him his Miranda rights. When I was done, he stammered for a few seconds before words finally trickled from his mouth. “What…what did I do? Why am I going to prison?”
“For starters, you made a hell of a mess out at Cig’s,” I said. “It seems you spent eight hundred dollars on lottery tickets and then left the trash in the parking lot when you were done going through them. That’s littering.”
He shook his head from side to side. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t even go to Cig’s.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t you?”
He nodded his head vigorously. “I’m positive.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said, forcing a fake sigh. “Now the teller won’t have to split the winning ticket with you.”
It took a few long seconds, but realization finally hit him. “What winning ticket?”
“It’s possible whoever bought all those tickets overlooked one and the teller scratched it off.” I nodded slowly for emphasis. “Do you want to guess how many millions she might’ve won?”
“That’s my money!” Jack’s face turned from red to purple. “Those are my tickets. She can’t have that money…it’s all mine!”
“Sorry, but you didn’t even go to Cig’s this morning, so it can’t be your ticket.”
“Wait, I remember now…it was me. You had me confused when you started reading those rights to me. I did buy those tickets, so the money is for me.” A huge smile split his round face in half. “It’s the break I’ve been waiting for. Now I can buy a car and get my kids back—”
“Look, you won’t be buying anything if you don’t start telling me the truth.” I sat on the bench beside him and watched people walk by, some of whom were here for the holidays. A few of them turned their heads to stare at us. “I already know where you got the money to buy the lottery tickets, but if you want me to believe you own the winning ticket, I need to hear you say it.”
He stared down at his thick fingers and took a heavy breath. “Okay, I’ll tell you everything.”
I sat there waiting, wondering what he did with the gun and what would possess him to shoot someone now, at the age of nearly seventy. He’d spent most of his life drinking alcohol and being lazy. The only offenses on his record were alcohol-related, beginning with a DWI when he was eighteen. After his third DWI offense four years later, he did some jail time and never obtained another driver’s license. I’d only been in town for about two years, but Susan and Melvin said he had been a bum as long as they could remember.
“Okay, here it goes…I found the money.”
I forced a smile, trying to remain patient. “Where did you find it? And don’t say the alley, because I already know that’s a lie.”
“No, it wasn’t in the alley.” He shook his head for emphasis. “No, sir, I found it in the bar.”
If I would’ve been Achilles, my ears would’ve perked up. When he didn’t elaborate, I told him to go on and explain.
“Well, I went to the bar yesterday morning like I always do and I spent most of the day there. I left to go for a ride and I came back in the afternoon like I always do.” He paused to scratch his puffy nose. “It started raining and I couldn’t leave, so Mitch let me sleep in one of the booths. He told me he’d wake me up when the rain stopped, but no one was around when I woke up. It was still raining a little and the wooden door was wide open. I called out for Mitch, but he didn’t answer. I walked around the bar to see if he was back there, but he wasn’t.” He took a labored breath, as though talking took up too much energy. “I saw the money just sitting there on the counter and there was a note from Mitch telling me it was a gift. Wait—no, it was a payment. I had done some work for him a while back and he said it was to pay me back for all the work I did.”
That explained why the killer didn’t track water into the bar—he was already in the bar. “Who else was in the bar with you and Mitch?”
“No one.”
“That’s not possible. Someone had to be inside with y’all.”
Jack picked his nose and then stared at the tip of his finger to see if he’d recovered anything. After rubbing his hand on the front of his shirt, he shook his head. “Nope, it was just me and Mitch. It was a quiet night…probably because of the rain.”
I leaned close to Jack. “Look, I need you to think hard about your answer, because this is really important. Someone had to be in the bar with y’all, so who was it?”
“I already told you…it was just me and Mitch.”
That would mean he killed Mitch. I straightened beside him and pierced him with my eyes. “Jack, did you touch the register at all?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
I grabbed one of his beefy hands and turned it upward so I could see the pads of his fingers. While I couldn’t ascertain with my naked eyes that his prints were a match, they were the same general pattern as the ones Amy and I had recovered from the table and the register. I bent his index finger back and jerked it upward. “Then why is this fingerprint on the keys of the register?”
Jack’s red face
turned a shade whiter. “If my fingerprints are on the register, then somebody must’ve took my finger and pressed it against the register while I was sleeping. And the same person must’ve put the money on the counter for me to take.”
I let go of his hand. “A more likely scenario is you opened the register and stole the money—but that was after you shot Mitch in the back and killed him.”
Jack threw himself back against the bench. “What are you talking about? I would never shoot Mitch.”
“Well, someone did, and—according to your own statement—you were the only one inside the bar at the time of the killing. You already admitted to stealing his money, so why don’t you—”
“Killing?” He shook his head in disbelief. “What are you talking about? Are you saying Mitch is dead?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, but you already knew that.”
Jack hung his head so low I thought he was going to pitch forward off of the bench. “If what you’re saying is true and Mitch is really dead, then where am I going to get my free beer?”
CHAPTER 6
I studied the aged alcoholic and frowned. While he certainly had the opportunity to commit the murder and he had just confessed to stealing the money, I still didn’t have a murder weapon and I couldn’t fathom what reason he would have for killing off his liquor supply. He seemed genuinely surprised to learn of Mitch’s passing and he had stumbled into the bar earlier calling out to Mitch, which would suggest he didn’t know the man was dead. Still, I had to be sure.
“Jack, what would you say if I told you I found the gun that killed Mitch and your prints were all over it?”
He shook his head from side to side. “I would say that’s impossible.”
“Why’s it impossible?”
“Because I’ve never touched no gun.”
“Never?”
“Nope…never.”
I sighed and slapped his back. “Okay, old timer, why don’t you stand up and put your hands behind your back?”
“Are you arresting me?” He didn’t move. “I told you I didn’t kill Mitch. I loved him like a son.”
“You also told me you stole his money, so you’re under arrest for felony theft.” While I was fairly certain he hadn’t committed the murder, I wanted him on ice until I could sort things out.
Once he was handcuffed—I put them in front so I could process his hands—I walked him to my Tahoe and had him sit in the front seat. I then swabbed his hands for gunshot residue and secured the swabs in an evidence container. “Did you wash your hands since you stole the money?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I can’t remember the last time I washed my hands.”
Considering the thick funk caked under his black nails, I believed him. I then called Amy on my cell to see if she could transport him to the police department. She agreed and arrived five minutes later. Although it was considerably cooler than it was yesterday, strands of her blonde hair were plastered to her sweaty forehead.
“I’ve been up and down the street looking at surveillance videos, but the rain was so heavy I couldn’t see much of anything.” She pointed across the street. “None of the shops across from here have cameras, so we’re out of luck in that regard.”
I turned Jack over to her and thanked her for her help. “Lock him in the cell and tell the dispatcher to keep an eye on him until I get there,” I said. “Tell her I’ll be in as soon as I interview Mitch’s girlfriend.”
When Amy had left with Jack, I dug through the stack of papers I’d recovered from under the bar. There were no employee records among what I’d gathered. I had taken a picture of the work schedule on the wall—it was from October—and remembered seeing another sheet with telephone numbers scribbled across it. I snatched up my camera and scrolled through the images until I found the one for which I was looking.
“There it is,” I said to myself when I saw the photo I’d taken of the wall. I zoomed in and read the names and numbers on the sheet. Some were beer vendors, one was the number for the police department, and then there were two names I recognized from the schedule; Foster Blake and Joyce Reynolds. I jotted their numbers in my notebook for later and tossed it on the seat of my SUV.
My phone rang just as I slipped into the driver’s seat of my Tahoe and fired up the engine. I glanced at the display screen. It was Susan.
“I heard you made an arrest,” she said when I answered. “Did you solve the case already?”
I sighed. “No. I just arrested Jack Billiot for theft. He was definitely in the bar when the killing happened, but I don’t think he killed Mitch.”
“How do you know he was in the bar when the killing happened? What if he went in afterward and stole the money?”
“Mitch had already cleaned the bar for closing, so he was killed sometime after two in the morning, when it was raining. If Jack would’ve entered the bar afterward, he would’ve tracked water on the floor.”
“What if he stole the money before Mitch was shot?”
I grunted. “If he would’ve tried pulling that stunt while Mitch was alive, he would be the one lying on the barroom floor.”
Susan was quiet for a few long seconds. “Do you think the murderer was in the bar before closing time? That Mitch knew the person?”
“I don’t know if Mitch knew his killer, but the person had to be in the bar before the rain started and after Mitch began cleaning up for the night.” I cocked my head sideways as I stared at the front of the bar. “Unless they were a ghost or…”
“Or what?” Susan asked when I allowed my voice to trail off, lost in thought.
“Let me call you back.” I ended the call in the middle of Susan demanding that I finish my sentence, and I approached the front of the Corner Pub.
CHAPTER 7
15 years earlier…
Sunday, January 7
Breechville, Kentucky
The young boy knew it was his golden birthday, but he didn’t fully understand what it meant, so he asked his stepdad.
“It’s when you become the age of the day of your birth,” he explained idly. “You were born on the seventh and you’re seven, so it’s your golden birthday.”
“That’s it?” The boy scowled. “I thought it was something special.”
“Shut up,” Stepdad said. “I’m trying to watch the game.”
Ever since the day Sissy had been taken away in the ambulance, things had gotten worse around the house. After a week of waiting for Sissy to come back home, the boy had made the mistake of asking about her. Mom had started crying and had run out of the room. That had prompted Stepdad to slap him so hard one of his baby teeth flew out of his mouth. Sure, the tooth was already loose, but the slap was that hard.
The boy stood and stomped toward his bedroom when the television erupted in chaos. Some football fans cheered and others booed. Stepdad began cursing and threw a can of beer across the room, spraying the yellow liquid across the carpet and on the wall. “Look what you did!” Stepdad bellowed.
The boy jerked in his skin as fear wrapped its icy fingers around his heart and squeezed tight. He tried to calm the trembling in his jaw as he braced himself for what would happen next. He was tired of crying. Tired of living in fear—tired of watching Mom live in fear. “What did I do wrong?” he asked in a voice that sounded calmer than he felt.
“You made them lose!” Stepdad stormed toward him and lifted his hand high in the air. The grown man derived great pleasure out of watching the young boy sweat. “I ought to knock the hell out of you.”
The boy didn’t flinch. He stood strong, staring up at this animal who made a habit out of beating him. A look of shock seemed to spread across his stepdad’s face. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you scared?”
The little boy didn’t answer for fear his voice would betray him. Instead, he stood a little taller and set his feet, anticipating the beating that would follow—and he didn’t have to wait long. Stepdad punched him right in the face, knocking him off his feet. W
hen he fell, his head slammed against the floor and a sharp pain shot across his head. He rolled to his stomach and scurried forward, determined to get away this time. This was it—he wasn’t taking it anymore.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Stepdad.
The boy scrambled to his feet and broke into a run, darting through the living room and toward the hallway that led to the back door. He wasn’t fast enough. A huge hand grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him off his feet—
“Hey!” called a shrill voice. “What’s going on in here?”
The boy rolled onto his belly in time to see his mom open the bedroom door behind Stepdad and enter the hallway. Her hair was a mess and she was wearing a thin nightgown.
“I’m teaching him a lesson,” Stepdad replied, reaching for the young boy. “He’s heading down the wrong path and if we don’t nip this in the bud, he’ll be a terror when he’s a teenager.”
“No!” Mom said. “Please leave him alone. I’m trying to sleep. I have to work tonight.”
The boy watched as Stepdad froze, and then slowly turned to face Mom. “Did you just correct me in front of the kid? Did you just disrespect me in the presence of a child? What kind of example do you think you’re setting?”
Mom cowered against the doorframe as Stepdad moved closer to her.
“Please, just let me get some rest. I need to be at work for—” Her sentence was cut short when Stepdad slapped her across the face, knocking her to the ground.
“I’ll kill you!” the young boy shouted, bursting off the floor and diving into the man’s legs. They were like tree trunks and the boy collapsed to the ground upon impact. Righting himself, he began punching blindly as the man continued to slap his mother around. Before long, he felt a hand on his head and he was jerked off his feet by the hair. His feet dangling, he clawed at the hand that held him, but it was no use. Stepdad was too strong.
“You think you can kill me?” Saliva sprayed from Stepdad’s mouth and into the young boy’s face. “Do you?”